The Front Porch

The early evening Mississippi August air was as thick as syrupy sweet tea. The couple sat silently on the front porch, praying for a slight breeze to blow through the oaks.  But no breeze was to be found.  The old terrier lay between the two, waiting for a word to be said. He waited a long, long time.

It was still. Too still.

You could cut the tension with Ginzu knife. (and it would still cut a tomato just like this…)

The dog didn’t quite understand what was going on with the humans. They were angry again. To the dog, it seemed silly. Of course, he ate cat poop, too. His understanding of the world wasn’t exactly sophisticated.

The married couple fumed. They had gotten so efficient at fighting they didn’t even know what they were fighting about. They were just mad. Pissed, actually. They sat on their front porch that sticky summer afternoon with heads hotter than the August itself.

Sure, they loved each other. But over the years, they had forgotten how to express it.  A slight here and a slight there and their relationship’s well had now run dry.  Both were mad about the past.  Unfortunately, the two forgot the simple fact that they live in the present.  They couldn’t forgive. Trust had evaporated like the puddles after a summer thunderstorm.  So like the afternoon air after the rain, they steamed.

Pride shackled them to pain.  Neither wanted to be first to admit they were sorry.  Oh no — That would be admitting they did something wrong. They slowly rocked their rockers, looking straight ahead and fumed. Both pretended the other one didn’t exist. It was easier to be mad that way. Nothing like forgiveness to screw up a perfectly good pity party.

The dog saw a squirrel trying to sneak down one of the giant oaks. He bolted off the porch and barked with great gusto. The squirrel, seeing the brown blur headed toward him, retreated to safety by jumping to another oak and escaping down its trunk. It left the frustrated terrier barking at the base of the wrong tree.

He was just like the couple’s relationship.

Both looked at their foolish dog and realized that their lives were barking up the wrong tree.  Admitting they were wrong, thought, would involve effort.  And effort would cause them to sweat.

“I’m sorry.”

Both spoke in unison.  They turned their heads and looked at each other. They didn’t have to say what for. That history had been well documented and written into the stone of their hearts.  But both had just taken a risk. To admit that they weren’t perfect. They made a sacrifice in their own pride to heal a wound.

The dog gave up on the squirrel and trotted back up to the porch. He lapped cool water from the bowl and plopped back down onto the wood floor.  It was too hot — the squirrels would have to wait.

The couple reached out their hands and held the other’s tight.

And when they did, a cool breeze blew through the oaks. It pushed the hot, still muggy August air aside, chilling their anger and their sweaty faces. And at that moment, the prideful couple thought of someone other than themselves.

The dog rolled over and began to snore.  Humans eventually figured out what a dog knew instinctively — Give someone else what they want and you can have everything you want.

On that hot Mississippi August afternoon, the temperature dropped 15 degrees.  And for that, the dog on the front porch was glad.